


A Heart, Tightly-Strung | 一触就响

by Zeebie



Category: POE Edgar Allan - Works, 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV)
Genre: Brief description of birth (not graphic), F/M, M/M, canon-typical incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27320203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeebie/pseuds/Zeebie
Summary: The Fall of the House of Jin.
Relationships: Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén/Mèng Yáo | Jīn Guāngyáo, Mèng Yáo | Jīn Guāngyáo/Qín Sù
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	A Heart, Tightly-Strung | 一触就响

**Author's Note:**

> For more context on that "birth" tag: It's a story mentioned within the story, and is described in very general, non-specific terms.

Much has been made of the singular autumn I spent at Goldscale Tower -- as indeed they were the last days that any living human spent within the old, storied walls of the venerable Jin stronghold. I will endeavor to explain what passed between the residents of the manor during this time, in the hopes that my account will stem the rising tides of rumor and lay to rest any panic that such exaggerated stories may cause.

The day of my arrival dawned chill, grey, and blustery. A dense fog, untouched by the feeble rays of the sun from behind the iron-colored clouds, had hindered my vision for most of the journey, and so Goldscale Tower remained invisible to me until I was nearly upon the premises. The great stairway appeared as a passage into the misted heavens, and I felt a dread upon my soul as if I truly were standing upon the threshold of death. A liveried valet took my horse at the base of the stairs, as ancient custom dictated all passage up the imposing structure be made on foot, as a humble pilgrim might approach a shrine. This, too, pressed upon my over-awed senses and left me certain, without any true underlying logic, that some fell circumstance awaited me at the peak.

The ascent dragged longer than I thought it should, but this was perhaps attributable to the effect of my limited vision upon my mind. Without the object of my quest in sight, I felt that I was wandering aimlessly into treacherous, unknown territory, rather than sedately proceeding along a path I had tread many times before, if not recently. The stones were slick with dew and mildew alike, and -- upon closer inspection -- the mouldering remains of the once-magnificent carpet set out to welcome visitors. Gold cannot tarnish, but the silk core around which cloth-of-gold is woven may decay; gilded wood may grow swollen with water and rot. With such thoughts come into my mind, the image of the manor rising from the gloom made my skin prickle with gooseflesh. I looked upon the estate -- upon the eaves sagging from their supports -- upon the pillars splintered like broken teeth -- upon the rotting beds of peony bushes -- upon the sleek puddles of mud that lay around the garden -- and my memory dropped over everything a vision of my last visit -- the sparkling white of blooming peonies like a ghost over the withered brown husks before me. Some years had passed since I had had occasion to visit, but surely even the grossest neglect could not have turned the house to ruin so quickly. I stood beneath the entry gate with its gold-leaf paint peeling back to reveal the dark wood beneath, and I looked to either side. Each new angle offered no relief from the oppressive air of the estate -- to each end, the buildings and gardens were equally sunk into the most grotesque parodies of their former glory, as if each point of former pride had been deliberately mangled by some spirit of vengeance.

Despite my misgivings, I resolved to enter. I had ventured this journey on the request of the master of the house -- a close companion of mine for many years in our youth. After his marriage followed a series of personal tragedies -- about which, I trust, my readers need no reminder -- and we had seen each other less and less often through the years. We maintained regular written correspondence, and it was due to the singular nature of his letter requesting my presence that I had determined to sojourn at Goldscale Tower for several weeks. We rarely wrote of ourselves or our circumstances, preferring instead to devote our efforts to discussions of the latest scientific theories, contemplations of classical poetry, and analyses of master paintings. Sometimes I would include sketches of my own, which he always praised excessively, and sometimes he would notate a musical phrase he had composed -- I strove each time he did to reassure him that his work was not as hopeless and discordantly unpleasant as he described it. Thus, it came as a shock when he wrote of a severe illness afflicting his wife, whom I had hitherto believed to be in good health. He beseeched me to lend my presence as his best -- and indeed only -- living friend in order that he might alleviate the worst of his anxiety surrounding her condition, and he made references such that I believed he was concealing a malady of his own. 

Seeing now the dilapidated condition of his residence, a baseless conjecture formed in my mind that the ruination of the house was somehow bound up in the suffering of its master and mistress -- that the same spirit which I fancied had acted upon the grounds was at work within the very minds and bodies of my hosts!

This was nonsense -- nonetheless, I betook myself to the small shrine situated on the side of the central courtyard in order to express my gratitude for the safety of my arrival, and to beg mercy on the behalf of my ailing hosts, now that I knew the conditions in which they lived. The shrine had been newly installed at my last visitation, and it alone of the desolate grounds had an air of frequent occupancy -- the smell of incense clung to the damp air, overcoming, however briefly, the watery stench of the rotting flora without. The golden statue of the bodhisattva within evinced regular care -- there was no visible dust nor damage -- but the sheen of the gold appeared to me rather dim, dimmer than the overcast sky could explain. I bowed my head rather than further observe the irregularities, and thusly I made my oblations.

After gathering my courage at the little shrine, I strode hastily across the remainder of the courtyard, fearing to see further signs of debasement against which my memory could draw haunting comparisons. I was met at the door by a servant with a meek and oppressed manner who escorted me down the somber hallways to the lounge where his master rested. Along the way, I encountered the household physician -- a surprisingly young man with a wide-eyed aspect that lent him nothing of guilelessness, owing, perhaps, to the insincere smile beneath it. He greeted me with proper deference and then slunk away into the shadowy depths of the hall.

The room into which I was led had once primarily served as an office -- the old mahogany desk by the windows still contained stacks of paper and writing utensils, but its master’s meticulous organization had lapsed. Nay, not lapsed -- it had been obliterated. Crumpled sheets littered the desk’s surface and the ground around it, and stains of dried ink made ghastly patterns across wood and paper alike. In the faint light from the windows, I could not make out what manner of marks trudged across the disordered pages -- perhaps writing, perhaps illustration, perhaps scribbled nonsense. The light from the windows was insufficient, as I said, and I realized next that the dreary weather could not account for this darkness too -- the panes of glass had been tinted with a vivid, bloody red.

As I turned my head from this troubling observation -- seeing now that the general state of the rest of the furniture was similarly tattered and unkept -- my host bestirred himself from the couch where he had been reclining when I entered. My first look at the man who had called me here brought such a shock to my senses that I at first believed myself briefly to have gone mad with the spectre of decay. Has there ever been a man changed so greatly in such a meagre span of time as Jin Guangyao? From the intimacy of our youth, I had known him to have features both delicate and charming: an eye large, liquid, and luminous beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and very pallid, but of a surpassingly beautiful curve; a cheek smooth and pale as glazed porcelain; brows with a certain severity of line that spoke to the tenacity of his character; hair fine, straight, and sleek; all these features, especially once the vermillion mark of his father’s house graced the skin between his brows, created a countenance worthy of note by all who observed it. The prevailing change upon my friend was the exaggeration of these fine features to a degree that bordered on caricature -- with the whiteness of his skin now more akin to bone than flesh, the shadow of his dimples as he smiled carved his cheeks into a skeletal mask, and the lustre of his dark eyes beneath the bloody red of his family signifier astonished me. I nearly failed to recognize his face as human, much less reconcile him with the youth who had once passed hours across from me at the negotiation table.

However, as he welcomed me, the warmth in his voice, and its measured, perfect cordiality, was the same as ever. Perhaps his smile betrayed weariness around the eyes, and his laugh came too quick and sharp with breath from the top of his throat, but as we sat down together, he maintained the solicitous air for which he was known throughout society. He offered me tea, inquired after my journey, and only once he had ascertained my perfect comfort -- such as I could find within the unsettling halls -- did he speak of himself.

He first admitted to what I had suspected from his letter; he suffered from some undiagnosable malady, and relief from it had heretofore eluded him. Its symptoms were confined largely to his senses -- their morbid acuity making all but the blandest of foods, the softest of garments, and the cleanest of scents intolerable to him. He told me with a self-effacing smile that he had not ventured from the house in too long a time for precisely this reason: he could not bear the odor of the vanquished peonies, nor the direct light of the sun. And indeed, he gestured slightly to the new and phantasmagoric coloration of the windows -- the crimson color comforted him. I listened attentively as he theorized at some length regarding the origin of this illness -- even as he assured me it was merely an affliction of the nerves, one that would surely pass -- and learned that he had been entangled by a series of peculiar beliefs regarding the estate of his forefathers. Such beliefs were given to me only in hints too subtle to describe accurately on the page, but centered principally around his understanding that Goldscale Tower, through the decades of inhabitance by the Jin family, had come to possess some kind of inhuman, imperfect sentience that granted the very walls within which we spoke a means of recognition when confronted with blood descendants of that family line. I understood that this, too, was a symptom of his disease, as he continued to ramble, describing himself as one harboring an irrational fear that the physical structure of the house would be the arbiter of his final demise.

Eventually, he further admitted, though not without hesitation, that these cataclysmic predictions could have their source in a much more ordinary melancholy; a natural oppression of the nerves owing to the deteriorating condition of his lady wife. Madame Jin had been his tenderly beloved companion ever since their marriage -- indeed, his only companion for the long years after the death of first his father, then his son. His affection for her was returned in equal strength, and husband and wife had enjoyed such marital felicity that they were lauded as a model by the peasantry in the surrounding villages. At present, however, he was faced with her imminent dissolution, leaving him alone, he lamented, to bear the entire weighty legacy of his family. As he spoke, the very lady in question appeared through a hallway at the far side of the study, wandering across the distant floor into another room without seeming aware of either her surroundings or herself. The ghostly vacancy of her expression caused my heart to seize with unaccountable dread, and I watched her as if entranced by a master hypnotist until she left my field of vision. I turned at once to her husband, and my seeking gaze met not his eyes, but the back of his hands as he cradled his own face in agony, tears trickling from between the crevices of his fingers.

“You see,” he moaned, “how far she has been reduced!”

Madame Jin’s ailment had wreaked upon her form a havoc similar to that which I saw on her husband, but her gradual wasting was accompanied by fits of lethargy that occasionally -- and increasingly -- gave way to catalepsy. That she was hale enough to tread the halls of the manor was testament to her admirable spirit in bearing up beneath the inexorable progress of her malady, which baffled her physicians even more thoroughly than did Jin Guangyao’s nervous affliction. Nonetheless, I later learned that this single glimpse of the lady of the house would be the last granted to me while still she drew breath; she succumbed to bed and was confined to her chambers that very night.

For several days thereafter, neither my friend nor I made any mention of her. In this time, I earnestly endeavored to fulfill the principal object of my journey to Goldscale Tower. The painful acuity of his senses allowed him no musical pleasure save that of certain stringed instruments, and to this end, he produced a pair of antique guqin for the pair of us. He deferred with his customary modesty to what he professed to be my own greater talent, and implored me to teach him some simple melodies to be played in harmonious duet. Thus we passed many pleasant hours, for my friend had always been a quick study, and his nervous affliction seemed not to have decreased his prodigious faculties. After these endeavors returned his confidence to him, I implored him to play one of his original compositions, for I knew that he had much talent and interest in the matter, though he often felt inadequate for lack of formal schooling. He resisted me with protests and sighs, but I would not be put off, and the look on his face when he finally agreed to an impromptu recital was not without a hint of sly pleasure. He set his hands upon the strings and, casting me a glance from beneath his lowered lashes, began to play. I soon understood the reason for his coy attitude, as the progression of notes resolved itself into one of the foundational melodies of guqin study as prescribed by the curriculum developed by one of my own progenitors -- I had suffered the book to come into Jin Guangyao’s hands some decade or so earlier, when he first expressed interest in the instrument.

Owing, perhaps, to the limiting condition of his auditory nerve, and the resultant confines placed upon his mode of musical output, leading, perhaps, to a sense of boredom with conventional compositional theories, the character of the variations he put upon the simple theme from the curriculum book was, in a word, disquieting. I remember this first recital both for the freshness of the shock I felt that the mind of my friend could work in such macabre -- yet ingenious -- twists, and for the fervor which grew in his countenance as he played. The aural canvas on which he embroidered was an exercise designed to train the mind of a young player in patience and precision, which achieved its effect by repetition of a simple, meditative melody that gradually added ever more complex configurations of notes into the pattern while requiring the space between the notes to never change. I had myself taught the initial phrase to him as a means by which a restless mind might be soothed, for the song was one I had often practised in times when I was in search of mental clarity.

Such purpose was nowhere in evidence among the chilling arpeggios my friend coaxed from the somber qin. As his recital progressed, the man appeared ever more deeply agitated. I could not distinguish his performance from an improvisation, and perhaps it was, for he never again played this fearsome corruption in my hearing. Corruption I term it for corruption it was -- of intended effect, though not of the underlying basis of skill. Indeed, I do not wish to convey the false impression that the sense of horror that pricked my skin owed anything to a failure of my host’s technique, for decidedly the opposite is true. That horror was only possible because the unnerving twists of sonic disharmony were executed with flawless form; even in the wildest throes of his fevered playing, he did not falter or freeze. When at last he ceased this impassioned performance, he settled his hands sedately upon the strings to silence their last ringing note, and then regarded me, something of his wildness having settled as well -- though still present in traces around that lustrous gaze -- and collected his breath in quiet gasps. 

I could do aught but admit the brilliance of his creation, unorthodox as it was. Within the safety of my own head, I fretted over the condition of a mind capable of so ghastly a creation -- but then, had Jin Guangyao himself not freely admitted his own sufferings when he begged my company to attempt their relief? And so I resolved myself not to fear unduly on his behalf, but rather renew, in good faith, my efforts to aid him.

If the pleasures of the symphonic world were restricted only to the somewhat mournful tones of silk string, my friend was fortunate enough to remain unaffected by any horror at the sight of a canvas and brush. The extreme sensitivity of his eye allowed him to perceive his work quite clearly within the encrimsoned gloam of his office, and I, loath to draw attention to my own visual deficiency, cheerfully assured him that my delight was to be found in reading or playing for him as he worked. He assented to this with a charming acknowledgement that a set of paintings I had bestowed upon him some time ago still graced the walls of his office -- I would later discover this to be true, but the walls and any hangings thereupon were indistinguishable to me at that time -- and that insisting I produce still more pieces on his behalf would be a species of greed entirely unbecoming in a host. While such a compliment remains in my memory still, it would be impossible for me to fully chronicle the precise avenues of conversation we pursued during these long hours, and more difficult still to describe in mere words the character of his painting. My friend had recently been taken with the Western trend of abstraction, and his resultant works defied all my carefully studied vocabulary. They were a riot of color -- or so I believed, without ever seeing them beyond the gory light of that room in which they were created.

Of the few paintings he produced during this time that treated with more concrete representation, all were concerned with the stark angles of human architecture. The natural world enchanted him not. I cannot say if his long confinement had impressed upon him the rigidity of form which he showed forth on canvas, or if he avoided organic scenes for the pain of having them denied by his affliction, but his every return to the built structure seemed to reinforce his anomalous belief in the consciousness of his residence. Accordingly, I praised his abstract works with a tactful generosity that I did not spare for those more representational efforts -- although, in truth, I found the latter to possess a compelling, if ominous, charm. I will attempt to render here the palest of likenesses of one of these paintings, hopeful that my feeble narration will illustrate the eerie allure of the rest.

A grand stairway dominated a small canvas -- the canvas seeming larger for the steep perspective of its subject. The stairs were viewed from their base, rising upward, but the lowest steps appeared too close, as if the viewer were laying low to the ground, rather than standing to make an ascent. Walls on either side of the stairway were shadowed in such a way that evoked scenes carved in relief, but no details were visible, save for the vague impression of watching eyes. The pale forms vanished into darkness at the top of the canvas, but there was no sign of sun or lantern to account for the light by which the base was visible.

That this painting in particular is freshest in my memory is no accident -- the very day on which Jin Guangyao finished it, our consideration of the work led him to reveal in greater detail that unnatural belief of his of which I made mention earlier in this account. If Goldscale Tower possessed, within its timbers and stone foundations, some ill-defined means to identify the individual members of the family to which it owed its construction and long maintenance, then the faculties which were capable of such identity were also capable of memory. That a building’s memory would differ from a human memory was only a matter of course; the theory espoused by my friend was that the estate collected the sins of its residents like a miasma within the crevices -- too small to be perceived by the human eye -- that were present in all matter, but especially within the porous cells of wood. The heavy weight of this miasma, accumulated over centuries, and only exacerbated by the troubles that brought him into the seat of family power, was finally overpowering the material of the estate, and could account for his own present state -- for the terrible changes wrought to him. Such opinions need no comment, and I will make none.

Of literature, my friend boasted a varied and thorough collection. One of his particular delights was in comparative translation, in the distortion of meaning that the lens of a new language brought to a text. He had several copies of the Christian holy book, in French, German, Latin, and English, and one that purported to be an authentic record of the translation produced by the Nestorians at Sian, but he doubted its veracity with a laugh even as he identified the manuscript to me. The pride of his library, however, was a first edition copy of the French translation of The Art of War. He eagerly showed forth the volume, along with several pages of his own painstakingly detailed notes on the choices made by the translator in the first chapter. Delight was evident in the tone of his voice, and we discussed at some length the curious challenge presented by the relative youth of the French language as it was now spoken, in contrast with the age of the work being translated.

It was easy and natural, with the shock of my arrival gradually giving way, as all men may become accustomed to the circumstances in which they find themselves, to fall once more into the habits of gesture and address that had characterized the intimacy of our younger years. Thus it was that my host called me “brother” when he informed me, abruptly, that Madame Jin was no more. As I moved to comfort him, he continued to speak, and informed me that he intended to confine her body in one of the unused vaults in the cavernous house for a period of two weeks. Seeing that I was dismayed at this aberration, he essayed to soothe my unease by laying out the following factors and how they influenced his decision: owing to the cataleptic nature of the lady’s illness, to fragmented and vague --- but nonetheless concerning -- inquiries made by Dr. Xue, and to a state of disrepair in the family crypt that required remedy, he had resolved on his singular course of action. That physician I had scarce seen since my first arrival, but recollecting the animalistic aspect of his smile, I found within myself no heart to contest this unusual precaution, as, indeed, it was only a logical result of the considerations my friend had described.

The lady received the finest funerary clothes, and she was borne within her coffin to her waystation along the road to burial by Jin Guangyao and myself alone. The vault in which we laid her abutted the small shrine at fore of the property, which I had once visited. If the condition of that shrine suggested regular visitation, this vault -- to a degree that lent itself to a reading of deliberate perversity -- evinced the opposite. The stone that lined the walls was coated in mildew which was more perceptible by scent than sight, for the dank air nearly subsumed our sole torch. A sharp tang of iron mingled with the mouldering vapours, and though I could scarcely see the walls, I noted the bands of rust streaked across the door as we passed. The stone floor beneath our feet screeched as we laid our grim charge along the wooden trestles in the center of the room.

Helpless to resist our natural, if morbid, sympathies, we lifted away the lid of the coffin for an ultimate look at the deceased. From my vantage, I observed husband and wife facing each other in profile, and I there discovered an uncanny symmetry in the slope of brow and nose. It may be that I made some small sound, for Jin Guangyao, without taking his eyes from his late beloved, confessed in a low voice the principal horror of his matrimony. I was viewing the grief of a living husband for his departed wife, yes, but equally was I viewing a brother mourning his sister!

I uttered some broken exclamations, and my dear friend, in a voice that I shuddered to hear, explained that they, themselves, had been unaware of the connection. Madame Jin -- then Lady Qin -- had fallen pregnant shortly before their marriage, and it was only then that Madame Qin, the pitiable grandmother-to-be, had sought my friend to admit that Jin Guangyao’s lord father had forcibly known her. “What was there to do?” he asked me. When I could provide no answer, he laughed -- I shall carry that hollow, ringing horror of that sound with me to the grave -- and told me how he had concealed the knowledge in the hopes that one miserable spouse was better than two.

“You may then guess, brother, what precipitated Ah Su’s fatal malady,” he said bitterly. He knew not how she had discovered the incestuous truth, only that she had approached him in a fit of hysteria with wild accusations, and that this encounter had concluded when she had collapsed to the ground in the first of her cataleptic attacks. 

As my gaze leapt between the two visages, it seemed to me that Madame Jin -- a cruel irony that she should only assume her true father’s name in so unfortunate a circumstance -- was merely asleep, and that her brother and husband in one, paling with inexpressible emotion above her, was the cadaver. Indeed, such diseases as hers often leave the corpse with a stain of blood within the cheek and the lip that surpasses the beauty of life. After contemplating this morbid jest for a time, my friend spoke again. The timid servant that I had met, surnamed Mo, was (in my friend’s words) the last whelp sired by his father -- that he knew of. All the bastard children of Jin Guangshan were gathered beneath one cursed, rotting roof. Having so spoken, my friend lapsed into disconsolate silence. With limbs that trembled under the strain of his emotion, he assisted me in sealing the coffin. The heavy door locked behind us, we made our way back to the main apartments of the house, our sides pressed together in search of some mute, weary solace.

In the throes of bereavement, we burned paper together in the shrine. My friend appeared numb with his grief and scarce spoke to me. Some days elapsed in this hushed routine, and then a marked change befell his manner. Nervous energy pervaded his limbs, and his reticence gave way to a strange, stumbling speech. He would begin to speak and then abruptly cease, appearing to change his thought as he was emitting it. The pitch of his voice, too, altered dramatically from its customary pleasing tones. His words emerged often with a shrill creak of terror. None of his usual occupations would distract him. He began to wander the tower with an agitated step, yet his paths followed no logic and brought him nowhere. And then when he ceased this frantic pacing, he would sit perfectly still for hours, rapt, as if listening to the very spheres of heaven. Yet, even as he sat with that rapturous focus, the luminousness of his eye guttered out. I could not continue unaffected by this transformation; a formless and all-encompassing dread crept over my being, and I felt the pervasive effects of his gloomy residence begin to addle my formerly composed thoughts.

The worst of such influence came a week or so after the internment of Madame Jin. I had fallen into a fitful sleep from which I frequently startled awake and discovered myself unable to move my limbs. I awoke with finality to the crash of thunder accompanying a burst of lightning so brilliant that it was visible even behind my sealed eyes. As I lay unwillingly still, with only the heaving of my chest to prove that I had not succumbed to the fatal misfortune of the tower, I listened to the thrashing of the tempest without. I gradually became aware of the sound of wind snaking through some invisible gaps in the casement of the windows, agitating the battered furniture of the sleeping quarters. The rush of air and the ceaseless tattoo of the rain obscured the other, smaller noise I was seeking, and a primal alarm overtook me. The terror pervaded through every extremity and caused me to tremble hideously, but within its grasp I was finally able to force open my eyes and throw my head to the side.

My friend had already roused himself from the bed and stood now at the open window. Rain battered him, soaking his bedclothes so that they clung to his emaciated frame. “Brother, can you see it? Have you seen it?” he called to me, shaking his head with a fearsome grin. I struggled to my feet and flung myself at the window. The wind gusted against me with force enough to throw me back down had I not managed to wrap one hand around the sill. The window overlooked the central courtyard, within which the wind swirled with a violence unmatched in my experience before or since. Sprays of water, dead leaves, and low-hung clouds were all bound up together in the wild cyclone, and it was long moments before I brought my focus to bear on the most singular feature of all -- that of the light. With the clouds so low and so dense, any glimpse of celestial bodies was obscured, and with the wind so fierce, no external fire could survive. The light which caught on the droplets spinning dizzily around the yard was a deep red, as that of a dying fire. It had initially escaped my notice after my long acclimation to the crimson windows of Jin Guangyao’s study. By this uncanny light I could see the damaged timbers stripped from the roofs of the smaller buildings, including the shrine that had been constructed with such diligence when my friend first became master of the house.

“Enough of this,” I told him, shivering with the awe of such a chaotic sight. “Let the rain remain out of doors, and let us remain safe and dry within. You have not the strength to withstand infection -- I shall close the casement.” I bade him sit, and he obeyed, but his eyes remained fixated on the sealed aperture. “There is naught we can do until the storm passes,” said I, as I vainly struggled to distract him. In desperation, for his attention refused to waver from its object, I took the first book near at hand and began to read to him.

The book was a collection of fables, a trifling thing acquired as an amusement for the children of the manor some decades before. The passage to which I opened happened to be midway through a tale, but I did not trouble myself to find the origin of the story. My only object was to create some modicum of serenity through a clear and unruffled recitation. 

I read: “The master set before his three disciples a challenge. Whoever amongst them could select and then break through the strongest substance, he would be judged worthy of inheriting the illustrious title of their master. The oldest of the disciples travelled to a mountain renowned throughout the land for the strength of its stone. He selected a portion of granite that even the master stonecutters of the area said could not be carved, for it caused all tools brought against it to splinter. In view of his master and his fellows, the oldest disciple clasped both his hands together and brought them down on top of the boulder. It shattered with the cacophony of an avalanche, and all who witnessed were amazed.”

As the final syllable left my lips, I, myself, paused in amazement. Beneath the impetuous roar of the elements against the casement, there seemed to me, distinct and yet muffled, as if proceeding from a great distance afield, to echo faintly, the same tectonic rumble which the tome had just described. Doubtlessly, this coincidence was merely a result of the chaos of the tempest, and the lucky timing had caught my overactive imagination at precisely the correct moment to cause me to fancy that the indeterminate sound shared the stony quality of the fictional scene. With a smile -- that went unmet -- to my friend, I resumed:

“The second disciple went into an ancient forest where one certain tree had grown undisturbed for millenia -- such was the grandeur of this titanic plant that ten grown men with arms outstretched could scarcely encircle the circumference of the trunk. This disciple explained that dead rock lacked the instinct to hold together, and was quite willing to be split when the correct pressure was applied, but the living tissue of a tree, such as this, possessed a binding power that resisted separation. The second disciple then proceeded to separate the trunk along the horizontal axis, after the fashion of woodcutters, with a single fierce kick.”

Again, and against my intentions, I ceased my performance in awe. At precisely the moment I described the fate of the venerable ancient tree, the faint, yet unmistakable, sound of cracking timber crept in among the rush of the storm. The character of this noise was such that I could not be persuaded it resulted from the wind against the rotted external structures of the mansion -- it had that certain quality of specific attack present only in the consequences of human action, and, moreover, the unseen wood which gave way creaked as only desiccated wood could, crackling without the soggy, dull affect of the waterlogged lumber outside.

Surely, beneath the lateness of the hour, the poor quality of my earlier slumber, and the instinctual fear -- felt on the subconscious level by even the most educated among the human animals -- of severe weather phenomena, the growing and implacable terror within my soul was only to be expected. Despite this natural discomposure, I yet possessed the discipline to refrain from any outward show of agitation, lest I upset the fragile state of calm that was now settling over my companion. I dared to cast him only the briefest of glances -- so as not to hint to him that anything was amiss. Another change had overtaken him as I read; he had dragged around his chair, which in its position had formerly allowed him to stare transfixed at the sealed window, so that he now faced the entrance to the hallway. This he regarded with a posture quite unusual from him; that of a lowered chin, nearly to the chest, but absent the slack character of sleep. His eyes, large with unfathomable and commingled emotions, glared at the door, and his lips moved with susurrations of noise unable to be distinguished as words. Knowing not what other course of action I might pursue, I again returned to the story.

“The youngest of the three disciples brought his master and his martial brothers into a small hut shrouded in gloom, but for the light of a single fire. A woman crouched on a low stool in the corner, moaning in mortal pain. The youngest disciple placed his hands on her, finding the swollen protrusion of her abdomen, and there applied steady pressure. After some time had passed in this manner, from the woman’s body emerged the crown of a foetal head. The whole of the child was then swiftly brought forth as the woman gave a shout.”

No sooner had I terminated the sentence than the very blood-curdling shriek which I had imagined rung through the halls of Goldscale Tower. I leapt to my feet, unable to bear the agony of ignorance. But in my rush to the door, the figure of Jin Guangyao upon his chair arrested me; for he had not moved, save that a ghastly smile had spread across his face as he continued to mumble. I stepped haltingly to him, lowered my head before his expression of skeletal delight, and listened, with a heart-stopping chill, to the hideous sentences he imparted.

“Hear-- yes, yes I have heard it! Oh, I heard it from the start, I have heard it these long, long days -- long, so long -- and yet I could not bring myself-- oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am! -- I dared not admit it! Forgive me, oh forgive me, I did not mean it-- she lives within the tomb! He said her blood would satisfy him-- she was near enough-- and did I not tell you my senses were acute? I heard her awaken, but oh, worse than her-- those first feeble movements-- now brother, I swear to you, I loved him still, I meant him now harm-- and who could mistake them-- ha ha! The stone, the bough, the child-- were they not truly the smashing of the floor of the vault, the splintering of her coffin, and then the cry of the woman herself, hapless within! Shall I flee? Is there any place where I shall not be found? Are they not approaching anon? Hastening to deliver my punishment? Is that not his heavy step-- is that not the frenetic, pathetic beat of her heart? COME THEN!” he suddenly bellowed, flying from his chair and then staggering, as if the effort had sucked the very life out of him. “COME! I TELL YOU, THEY STAND NOW WITHOUT THE DOOR!”

At this pronouncement, a boom like thunder rang through the sealed portal. I looked from his outstretched finger to the heavy doors, and -- barely having the time to ponder the identity of the mysterious second figure in my friend’s dreadful admissions -- became mute with terror as those doors swung inward. Before us hung the form of Madame Jin, scarlet blood soaked through her pale robes, and she opened her mouth as if to scream, with her eyes bulging like a demonic mask as they found her brother, but no noise emerged, for the lady was held around the neck by a fierce and gigantic hand.

Attached to this hand was a dead man. I recognized him at once, despite the aura of sullen, ruddy illumination that wreathed him, and though I was seized by the compulsion to deny the evidence of my senses. Before us stood Nie Mingjue, the late Lord of Clearwater, Red Blade Master, and eldest of the brotherhood sworn between himself, Jin Guangyao, and me.

“Ah Yao,” I gasped, and had time for no more utterances. The corpse of Nie Mingjue threw Madame Jin before us, and she collapsed in the unmistakable posture of true death, her unseeing eyes -- dark against her bloodless flesh -- wide open and fixed on her brother. In the next moment, Jin Guangyao slammed his palms against my side and propelled me from the room, past the animate corpse of our long-dead companion, and into the exterior hallway. I whirled around to return, harboring some senseless, formless hope that I might avert the impending tragedy, but all that my efforts allowed me was a final glimpse of my friend as he stared down his imminent doom with a face like a holy martyr. He cried, “I AM NOT AFRAID OF YOU,” with his last breath -- before Nie Mingjue fell upon him, both hands wrapped around his throat, and bore him to the ground.

Were it not for the concussive force of a wooden beam that crashed through the ceiling above my head, I would not have discovered within myself any capacity to turn away from the awful sight. However, the body understood what the mind could not, and the base instinct that inhabits all men, that clings to life as the greatest and singular good, drove me from that crumbling sepulchre. As I fled through the courtyard, the ruins of the shrine appeared to my side. The bodhisattva lay among the debris. Her polished gold had been scarred by the violence of the wind. Droplets of rain lay upon her, and they dripped down her visage as bitter tears.

I had struggled down half the worn and treacherous steps of the tower when a sudden flare of light burst over my shoulder and illuminated the scene in front of me with crimson fury. The sluices of water at my feet took on the appearance of blood pouring forth from a wound -- this I thought only briefly, as I turned in panic to observe what further horror passed at my back. What I saw was the gory moon, full and low and swollen, setting through the clouds and miasma of the estate. Its scarlet light made visible to me the extent of the damage done by the storm: the aged timbers would no longer stand. Some central beam cracked, and the whirlwind intensified; the last of the estate buildings split apart with a mealy and muted tearing noise. But to my attention then came a still more terrible sound -- a grumbling of the earth. The stone on which I stood began to vibrate, and I understood that the destruction would take not only the residential hall, but the ancient burial grounds dug deep into the mount on which the ancient Jin had made their home. Heedless of my footing, I fled down the remainder of the steps and hauled my pitiable, shaking form to what I prayed was a safe distance. The garish moonlight still shone -- the fierce wind drove the storm onwards to new victims -- and my trembling hands clutched my tattered clothing as the lofty stairway collapsed upon itself, cascading backward into the sunken remains of Goldscale Tower.

To that spot, I remained frozen for a length of time I could not discern. My skin was numb to the touch -- so numb, indeed, that I did not notice the press of a fragile hand upon my shoulder until its owner spoke.

“Forgive me,” the wispy, timid voice said. I spun so wildly that I lost my footing -- an withered old tree at my back was the only prevention I had from splaying out fully on the ground. “Forgive me,” the youth said again, his voice barely more than a whisper. I recognized him when his eyes darted up from his cringing bow -- the powder he wore on his face marking him as the Mo servant boy. “The young lord sent me to inquire if--if you required assistance.”

To which young lord could he be referring? I thought dully. Surely his master was dead. I turned to peer where he indicated, and saw -- standing beside a handsomely appointed carriage, dressed in elegant silk clothes, paper fan to his mouth -- the presently living Lord of Clearwater.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Jin Ling Is Fine. He is relaxing on a lake somewhere with Jiang Cheng and Fairy, and while he will be understandably upset that his aunt and uncle are dead, he will process his grief in a healthy way and move forward. Probably he stopped living at JLT after Rusong died and everyone collectively went “we just don’t trust the Vibes, man,” so please don’t worry about him. He is fine.
> 
> The title comes from the epigraph of the original Usher story: “Son coeur est un luth suspendu; Sitot qu'on le touche il resonne,” which is a quote from a French poet named De Beranger. Google tells me this translates to “His heart is a suspended lute; As soon as one touches it, it resonates.” The English title is from the first part, but the Chinese title is from the second.
> 
> The Bible translation that supposedly comes from Nestorians in ancient Xi’an is a reference to [this bad boy.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xi%27an_Stele)
> 
> JGY has notes on _The Art of War_ bc I’m basic, but the first chapter is the source of the quote “All warfare is based on deception,” and like…..what was I gonna do, say NO?
> 
> There's a couple lines I lifted verbatim from the original because they were just TOO GOOD to pass up:  
> \- "an eye large, liquid, and luminous beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and very pallid, but of a surpassingly beautiful curve" (this is what decided me on LXC as the narrator, lol)  
> \- "Such opinions need no comment, and I will make none." (again, how perfect for LXC!)  
> \- "Oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am!" (naturally this is JGY on the subject of...himself)
> 
> Inspiration/motivation for this fic came from witnessing a bunch of twitter discussions, but I'd like to give a special mention to [quigonejinn](https://twitter.com/quigonejinn/status/1317981296417820677) for translating Qinghe to Clearwater, and for [whenasinsilks](https://twitter.com/whenasinsilks/status/1314577182384173062) for putting Poe x CQL in my path and also for [pointing out just how gothic a character JGY is.](https://twitter.com/whenasinsilks/status/1314619106432344065)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and happy Halloween!!!


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